Insomnia
by Amber1
Summary: A first-person POV of Scully's thoughts


**Title**: Insomnia

**Author**: Amber

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Rating: PG

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Feedback: mulders_girl42@hotmail.com

**Summary**: Scully's thoughts in a first person POV

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Spoilers: None

**Author's Webpage**: http://www.geocities.com/mulderz_girl

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Author's note: This story takes place before Mulder and Scully ever "got together", if they even did get together (I'm taking "all things" and "Requiem" into account ;-) )

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I can't sleep. Under normal circumstances, I would be in dreamland seconds after my head came into contact with the pillow. Tonight, however, is an unfortunate stray from my involuntary routine. There isn't anything in particular which is bothering me... It's more of a compilation of various thoughts on the previous day's events, which seemed to be wracking the interior of my grey matter.

I let out an irritated sigh as I roll onto my back. My mind is swirling with questions. i"Why did Skinner assign us such a tough case? … Why must Mulder always be so insistent on following dead leads? … Why did he give me that look today?"/i I breathe heavily and roll to my stomach. I rest my chin on the pillow. i"Why is he always right?"/i

I allow a rather unimpressed groan to escape my throat as I place my feet on the carpeted floor beside my bed. I fumble for the light-switch on my bedside table, knocking a glass full of water to the floor in the process. Fortunately the carpet had saved the glass from splintering. 

I bend to the glass with an outstretched hand, and misinterpret the distance between my forehead and the bedside table. "Ow!" I yelp, as I press a hand to my head. 

"Okay… okay… I'm fine…" I mutter aloud, as I brace myself to stand. I'm not sure to whom I am speaking, but that had never stopped me from reassuring myself before. My thoughts turn back to Mulder. He would find this situation so funny. Here I am, his normally self-reliant, collected partner, clumsily knocking things to the floor and causing myself bodily harm. Moreover, here I am reassuring imyself_/_i__ of the fact that "I'm fine."

I pace to the kitchen, trying to concentrate on my footsteps, instead of the dull throbbing which is emanating from the skin of my forehead. I half blindly open the freezer door in search of ice with which to reduce the swelling.

That figures. No ice. 

I begin to move articles of food out of my way in search of something, anything, to cool the pain of my head. My eyes focus on a tube of frozen cookie dough. That sounds incredibly good right about now. I contemplate removing the tube from my freezer and eating it raw, when a sudden pound of my forehead reminds me of the actual reason why I am standing infront of an open freezer. 

My eyes scrutinize the rather empty interior. I can see pork chops, ice cream and a bag frozen peas. Frozen peas. That will do. I grasp the bag and realize, perhaps just a little too late, that the ice formulating on the outside of the package is very, very cold. Inadvertently, the bag slips out of my hand, landing on no other than my baby toe. 

The pain sends me reeling. My toe throbs in rhythm with my forehead, as I grasp my foot in my hand and settle down to the floor. I lie there for a split second, silently chastising myself over the stupidity of the situation.

Suddenly, my thoughts stray from the intensity of my pain, as I am interrupted by the ringing of the phone.

Mulder.

After a few seconds I stand. I hobble over to the phone, which, fortunately, is no more than three steps away. Still, it takes me at least three rings before I reach the receiver. I lift it off its stand, and raise it to my mouth, which involuntarily releases a sharp sigh. "Yeah Mulder." 

He doesn't miss a beat. "Did I wake you?" He pauses slightly and, cutting off my response, adds "How did you know it was me?" 

I glance at the glowing green numbers on my microwave, and respond "Who else would be phoning at 3:47 a.m.?"

I hear a pause on the other end. I wonder whether or not he is contemplating a witty retort. If he has one, he decides to keep it to himself, as he eventually avoids my response entirely.

"Scully, you know that case we're working on?"

I sigh openly. "Yes."

"I think I have a new lead."

Of course he does. Of course he thinks to call and tell me about it at three-thirty in the morning. I put on my best uninterested visage. I hope he can sense it through my response. "Mmm hmm."

I realize that in talking to him I have momentarily forgotten the pain of my foot. It returns with a vengeance when I mistakenly stub it on the underside of the chair in which I am attempting to sit. 

I stifle an outcry and manage with a restrained "Ouch!"

I hear Mulder's voice on the other end. "Scully, are you okay?"

I speak through clenched teeth. "Yeah… I'm fine."

Hearing confirmation of my well being, he continues with his previous line of thought. "Well, about the case… can I come over?" That is one of the things about Mulder which I so dearly admire… he always heads straight to the point. I laugh in spite of myself.

"What?" he demands. He sounds a little offended.

"Never mind." I could imagine Mulder being one of those pushy, clingy kids whom I never wanted to befriend. The kind who always invited themselves over to your house, stayed for dinner, and were generally difficult to get rid of.

"Well?" he inquires.

"Yeah, I guess…" 

"Okay Scully, I'll be there soon." 

I glance around my apartment. It's a little too untidy for my liking. Oh well. Mulder is probably too caught up in his case to even notice. I gaze down at my clothing. I had managed to throw a robe over my silk pajama set. My hair is messy and tangled. I can feel it. 

Oh well. What does he expect? I'm not a movie star. As much as I wish, I do not roll out of bed with my makeup done and my hair in perfect condition.

To prevent myself from further accidental injury, I convince myself to remain seated until Mulder arrives. However, I defy my wishes a minute subsequent to forming them, when a grumble of my stomach wills me to the freezer. 

I open it, seizing the tube of cookie dough. I tear the package open with my teeth, as I grasp a spoon from the cutlery drawer. I manage this round trip - from my chair to the freezer and back - without causing additional bodily harm. I foolishly pride myself on this realization.

I attempt to dig a spoonful of the frozen chocolate-chip dough. This proves to be a more difficult task than I had originally perceived. All I manage to extract from the mass are a few ice crystals. I reason that further excavation attempts would most likely only warp my spoon. On that account, I resolve to place the packet in the microwave, which, hopefully, will leave the dough more malleable. 

I press the "Time Cook" button, followed by "2" and "0". I stand close by, watching the package undergo the radiation process, incase the plastic decided to melt or anything else would incite a similar detrimental effect.

"Beep! Beep! Beep!" The microwave sounds with its annoying tone. The words "ENJOY YOUR MEAL" flash across the screen as I press the door eject button, and remove the package. 

I hear a knock at the front door, so I pace to the entrance of my apartment, and turn the knob. Mulder stands in the doorway. He has a folder in his hand. He nods a hello and gives a genuine smile. I smile in return.

I notice that his gaze has dropped to my hand. I suddenly remember that I am still holding the tube of frozen cookie dough. I catch his gaze. He raises his eyebrows in question, a slight smile on his lips. 

"I was… uh… just about to bake cookies." I stutter. Thankfully, I left the spoon the kitchen. I do not wish to explain to him the fact that I was about to delve into a package of raw cookie dough at four in the morning.

"At four in the morning?" he inquires.

I am caught off guard. "Huh?" I falter stupidly. 

He frowns slightly. "Bake cookies," he says. "You were going to bake cookies at four in the morning?"

"Oh! Yeah." I feel moronic for not being able to come up with any other explanation. Avoiding his questioning gaze, I turn and walk to the kitchen. He follows me in.

He places his folder on the table. "Do you want any help?" he asks. "Baking cookies." he adds quickly, as not to cause me additional confusion, I suppose.

I turn to face him. "Sure." I respond.

He nods briskly. "Do you have any…"

"Cookie sheets?" I finish his sentence for him, hoping to have recovered from my initial sluggishness.

"Yeah." He says.

"Yeah." I answer, pulling one from the drawer behind me. I hand it to Mulder. He eyes it, twirling it in his hands. It takes him almost dropping it before he opts to place it on the table, beside his folder.

I pull a knife from a block on the counter and begin slicing the now-moldable cookie dough. Mulder watches me. I silently pray that, in my current clumsy stupor, I will not slice off a finger.

I keep my eyes on what I am doing, as I inquire: "Mulder, do you want to grease the pan for me?" I don't leave him leeway to respond before adding, "There should be a container of margarine in the fridge."

He obeys. Baking cookies with Mulder at four in the morning. This is definitely a first. I turn to face him as he omits a slight chuckle.

"What?" I ask.

"He looks back at me. Oh, I was just thinking, Scully."

Of course he was. "About?" I ask, inadvertently sounding seemingly uninterested.

He shakes his head slightly. "Baking cookies with my partner at four in the morning. That's definitely a first."

"Yeah." I respond simply. I realize that this is the primary difference between Mulder and I. He voices his thoughts, while, more often than not, I keep mine to myself. I have been noticing lately the startling similarities between our two lines of thinking.

There is a pause for a second, before Mulder speaks. I can sense him staring at me, and I know he is about to ask me something. He is very predictable… I think. Maybe, just in spending so much time with him, I have a deeper understanding of his psyche. I come to the realization that most people would not label Fox Mulder as "predictable". 

"Scully?"

I stop slicing the dough, but I do not turn to face him. "Yes?"

He pauses for a brief moment, then shakes his head as he speaks a word or two under his breath. "Um… how long do cookies take to bake?"

I pick up my knife and continue slicing at the remaining slab. "Not long. Ten minutes, maybe." iThat wasn't what you were going to ask me./i I think that thought almost instinctively. I analyze what I have just surmised. I realize that I could not even venture a guess at what it was that he was initially inclined on asking me. However, I could sense that what he did ask me, was not what he had wanted to say. 

I believe that this is the unfortunate basis for our relationship. Words left unspoken. Usually, more often on my part than his, but the existent basis nonetheless. It is unintentional. At least, this is what I will myself to believe. Why do I do it? I keep so much from the person to whom I am closest … I continue to distance myself… from the man I love… I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head briskly. I had tried to stop myself before I had even formulated those words inside my head. Why? Is it fear of commitment? Or fear of simply being deserted? 

I am suddenly startled as Mulder speaks. "Okay!" he exclaims mock-excitedly and clasps his hands together. "The pan is all greased!"

"Good," I say "because, I have finished slicing the dough." I motion with my head towards the spot at which I am standing. "Bring it over here."

He stands beside me, placing the cookie sheet on the counter. I can feel the warmth of his body next to me. It feels unexpectedly welcoming.

I begin to place the cookie slices on the tray. Mulder mimics my lead. It doesn't take long before the pan is filled. Mulder steps back as I place the tray in the pre-heated oven, and close the door.

He watches intently for a moment before inquiring "Now what?"

I look up at him. "We wait."

He repeats my statement. "We wait. And watch?"

I nod. "Yes. Unless, of course, you like the taste of burnt cookies."

Mulder's eyes glow with a reminiscent tinge as he gazes upwards, fishing a memory from the depths of his mind. He licks his lips involuntarily. "Actually, when I was a kid, I always liked the burnt ones. Maybe it was me, stuck in a childlike version of going against the crowds." He smiles and continues. "Or, maybe I just liked the crispy texture. I can't seem to recall which it was." He looks at me and we both smile. "Either way, I always had to fight Samantha for the burnt ones… I think she just did it to spite me."

I can't help but smile. Children of that age are so typically vexatious and unintentionally cute. "Maybe she just wanted to be like her big brother."

Mulder nods, honestly considering the thought. "She was quite a bit like me. She was like… a little eight-year-old girl version of myself. Not so farfetched, is it Scully?"

I chuckle slightly. "Well, I for one, like my cookies golden brown." I try to concoct a quick reasoning behind it. "Mulder, were you one of those children who stuck their marshmallow directly into a flame and blew it out after the whole thing caught on fire?"

"Yep Scully, you got me down."

"Yeah? Well, I was one of those children who would find a glowing log and slowly roast my marshmallow to a golden brown."

He pauses for a second and takes in a quick breath before asserting "It could be a metaphor for our lives, Scully."

I look at him. "How so?"

"Well, I kind of rush into things. You are opposite in that you take it slow and particular. You pay attention, and take into consideration, every last detail. You never jump to conclusions. Everything is slow, like the marshmallow roasting, in that it is justified and second-guessed, quantified and qualified to the umpped-degree. 

I rush into things. This is similar to the way I just kind of shove that marshmallow into the fire. I'm not afraid to take chances. Compare this to the fact that the marshmallow is now a ball of fire, and I'm watching it burn. For me, there's no time to take it slow. I'm the type jump to quick conclusions."

I raise my eyebrows as I gaze at him. "Wow, Mulder, that's an amazing analogy. I never expected that my entire life could be summed up in comparison to the manner in which I roast my marshmallow."

He shrugs. "Well, they say that you learn something new everyday."

"That's true. But, you know what I've always wondered?"

He shifts his position. "What?"

"Who is 'they'?"

"Huh?"

I chuckle. "The people. Those who coin these phrases. Where are they today?"

Mulder gives me a bemused look, and adds quietly "That was a very 'un-Scully-like' thing to say."

I'm not sure whether to be offended or intrigued. I am soon saved from any response, however, as I notice that the kitchen is beginning to fill with smoke. I turn off the oven and open the door, removing the cookies. Most are relatively dark in colour. I glance in Mulder's direction. "Looks like you got your wish." I say, motioning towards the tray. He nods briskly.

I emit a bothered cough, and, waving smoke from my eyes, crack open a window. Mulder stifles a laugh. 

I sit down at the table. Mulder grabs a few cookies and sits down beside me. He forges a concerned demeanor. "Not much of a pastry chef, are we Scully?"

I roll my eyes. "Hey, don't lay the blame on me. You were supposed to be watching them too." I remind him.

He takes a bite of a cookie. "I like 'em burnt, remember?"

I raise an eyebrow.

"Hey, how did you do that?" he suddenly asks. I need not question him as to what he is speaking about, because his inquiry is soon accompanied by his careless reaching out and tapping of my forehead.

"Ow!" I exclaim, as I gently caress the area. I opt for the cliched explanation. "It's a long story."

Mulder, seemingly, does not take cliches at face value. He grins. "We have time."

"What about the case?" I nod towards the folder he has brought. I am suddenly more interested in the details than I had previously anticipated that I would be.

He continues to grin. "It can wait."

THE END


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